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quinaraHe we go. I haven't managed to reply to comments this evening, but thanks, people of teh internets! Will reply when it's not my bed time and I'm not editing fic. Hopefully that will be some time soon...
Turn and Face the Strain.
[Sequel to The More Things Stay the Same and As Good as a Rest.]
When Buffy thought about falling in love again, she didn't expect it to be nearly so complicated as it actually turns out to be.
Also, she didn't expect it to be Spike. (She's not sure he did either.)
[Notes + Chapter One: I'm Not a Political Animal, But.]
/
[Chapter Seven: By Letting You In.]
.
Chapter Eight: Maybe the Time is Right.
When Spike got downstairs again, Dawn was still browsing Health and Beauty. She was pretty easy to spot, in the end, as the only school-aged kid he could see, though he doubted she was the only one playing hooky from Sunnydale Junior High.
Initially, however, he didn’t want her to know he was there. He wanted to know what she was doing, what she was looking at and why she was here, since, as far as he could remember from the Revello Drive bathroom, she had beauty lotions and potions and gadgets coming out of her ears. He couldn’t quite remember how her school worked, if it was possible she’d been let out early for not having any lessons at the end of the day, but it didn’t seem likely. After all, she was only fifteen – weren’t there rules about that sort of thing?
As it was, he needed hair gel, so Spike started browsing for that, actually browsing for a Dawn-shaped girl, but making sure he didn’t give that impression to anybody else. It was a rather easy hunting habit of the old days, one he had no qualms about using now, and it got him through Styling right around the corner from Shampoo and Conditioner, where he could pause by the end display, drop out of eye line when a shampoo-shopper looked up.
Dawn, after all, seemed to be shopping for shampoo. She was in the wrong section, at least for a girl with her budget, reading price labels on bottles getting up past fourteen dollars, on to twenty and over. He understood an urge towards the finer things in life, but watching the girl pick up bottles and avidly read the bollocks they’d written on the back about what was essentially the same old soap, well, he’d almost had enough.
Then, however, it got worse. On a dramatic spark of ‘oh, hang on!’, Dawn put the shampoo she was reading back, then pulled her large shoulder bag down to her elbow and opened it, rummaging around and then glancing past it to see that one of her shoelaces was coming undone. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, and Spike had to accept it was slick, but he couldn’t help wincing as Dawn stood back up, knocking a couple of low-shelf, expensive bottles into her bag along the way, behind the cover of her body and faster than a dozy perusal of CCTV would catch.
Artful Dodger, eat your heart out. He hadn’t taught her that trick, had he? It wasn’t like he operated with a bag, so it couldn’t have been him. Most of his thieving from shops like this relied very simply on being fast, but that wasn’t available to her, so she’d adapted, clearly. Too bright for her own good, that was Dawn.
“Oi, niblet,” he said then, before she could get her bag closed, not sure he could carry on watching, starting to get more than a little angry with her. He wasn’t sure that was the right emotion, but it was the one he had on him, anyway. Yeah, all right, she’d watched him steal a hundred things and they’d had a laugh about it, but she wasn’t supposed to go out on a limb and risk herself like this. She certainly wasn’t meant to take him as her role model. What the hell did she think she was playing at?
When she’d worked out who was talking to her, Dawn spun to face him like she’d been struck with an electric shock, colour bleached white from her face, guilt in her big eyes. That was more like what he expected to see. It made him feel a tad off-colour, but all the experience with Buffy was making him realise you couldn’t ever fully distract people and their souls from the feeling – you had to ride it out.
And so he asked Dawn, “You had any lunch?” making it clear in no uncertain terms that she was coming with him. She wasn’t getting out of this that easily. “Let’s have lunch.”
“Spike…” she began, finding her voice but starting to shake, fingers trembling on her bag handles. At least she knew he wasn’t impressed. That boded well, didn’t it? He’d always tried to keep a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach with her, if only to keep her out of trouble with her sister.
Crossing the few steps down the shampoo aisle, he moved to get hold of Dawn’s arm and drag her, not forcibly, but painlessly encouraging, out of this place and down to the food court. One step in, however, he had Buffy’s nagging voice in his head and he realised there was more to think about, just like there always was. He had to made a decision, right now and fast, even though he knew that wasn’t his strong point. The most expedient route out of this was to sneak his gel in her bag along with the two other bottles, get her to close the thing up and scarper to the food court. Yeah, that would definitely be the easiest – and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already been thinking about slipping the tub in his hand into his jacket bag and getting on with his day rather than queue again. But then…
What would Buffy do if she were here? What would she want him to do? He could see the scene played with Buffy in his place: the panic and fear taking over her expression, worry about Dawn making her yell, imagination running towards how things must have got to this point, her own fault in the proceedings; she'd put the shampoo back on the shelf and march her sister out of here, head in hands and likely not allowed back to the store or even the mall, no matter if her friends ever wanted to loiter, or she wanted new clothes.
He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t bring himself to. He’d rip Dawn a new one when they were home – or back at 1630, at least – but he couldn’t make a scene out here, make her feel so terrible about it and what he knew was her favourite place. But even then - he knew that Dawn would never be allowed to walk out of here with stolen goods, not ever. She’d know it too, use it as a weakness against him and accuse him of gross hypocrisy. As it was, he couldn’t leave himself any opportunity to be wheedled out of his anger; what if Buffy used it as an excuse to stop saying she loved him?
With that frightening thought in mind, what was he going to do? He had fifty dollars left, most of which was pigeonholed for blood and smokes, but, fuck it, he could go without. Maybe Buffy would get a clue and make Angel pay up for all the heartache he’d given her over the years, enough that she’d feel like sharing. Dawn was on two bottles at eighteen so that was, what, thirty-six, and his gel was cheap. And he could cover fried chicken and a drink. It wasn’t like Buffy’s sis was selfish when it really came down to it, so the guilt trip would probably be a lesson in itself. He hoped.
“Best pay for this stuff before we go, though, yeah?” he said, committing within seconds, steering Dawn towards the cash desk. God, he hoped he knew what he was doing. “Dunno why you couldn’t use a basket if you felt like having your hands free, but best pay before you forget. Here, pop that in as well.” Ostentatiously he tossed his gel up into the air, letting it crash into the treasure trove of Dawn’s bag – which sounded like it had a little more in it than two bottles of hair goop. Oh, buggering hell, he hoped this would be all right.
It took a moment for Dawn to start keeping up with where he was shoving her. Not enough that he set off the chip, but enough for her to blush bright red. “Spike,” she whispered, as if he hadn’t got it, “I can’t afford… I was gonna…”
She was doing well at least at making him angry; how fucking stupid did she think he was? Thankfully an icy stare shut her up, and she took exactly his meaning when he said, “No need to get into debt over bits like this; best I treat you, innit?”
At last her brain caught up with her mouth, and she scurried to match his stride across the floor. “No, Spike, it doesn’t matter,” she started saying, guilt really kicking in. (They were almost fun to play with, soulful types.) “You don’t have to spend your money – I don’t need… I’ve got eleven fifty; I can owe you the rest – I’ll get you blood and stuff!”
She shut up when they reached the cashier, as he pulled out the last of his cash and she had to concentrate on her trembling hand as it set on the counter her shampoo and conditioner and the hair gel, then a cheap, infantile eyeshadow set and nail polish that really wouldn’t suit her, silver mascara.
He watched the numbers ring up; they were going to need Dawn’s money for lunch. Another plan turned to shit in his hands that was.
“So why’d you do it?” he broached when they’d finally left the store, settled down in the disturbingly bright but underground food court, got some chicken to share, beans, fries, a Dr. Pepper and a Mountain Dew – because that made it cheaper, apparently. He’d thought about making Dawn buy him hot wings at the one-fifty premium, but mostly what he wanted was a beer and a couple of pints from an open vein, so it seemed petty to upgrade something that would never substitute.
The shock was starting to wear off Dawn’s face now, but it left behind a sullen expression he didn’t usually get aimed at him. “Does it matter?” she asked, picking at chicken skin with her spork. “I didn’t even steal anything; I’m crime free.”
“Yeah,” Spike replied, trying to tune out the inane chatter that filled the air around them. “Because you’ve never done this before.” Again, how stupid did she think he was? “Pull the other one, bit.”
“For your information,” she declared, bristling, jabbing her chicken harder, tearing some off onto her tines, “and not that you notice or care, but I’ve been getting better. Your intervention’s a little late.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, frustrated. He forgot this one could be as bad as the other Summers sometimes. What was he supposed to have known? To have guessed? To have divined from her gestures over the formica? He was only one vampire, for Christ’s sake.
Apparently this wasn’t enough for Dawn, however. “It means,” she spat, heading down the tried and tested route of taking things out on him, “that while you’re upstairs boning my sister, my life is still going on.”
“Oh.” Well, at least she hadn’t figured out the downstairs bit. Not that that would appease Buffy. “You…”
“There was – squeaking,” Dawn hissed, sounding less scandalised and more like this was the only ammunition she had.
One of the marvels of lacking a soul was that he didn’t really care. In the end, if things got too difficult or too complicated, he didn’t have to bother and it would wash over him, forgotten. “Well…” Fuck it; he refused to care about this, so told her, “Them’s the breaks, innit?” He loved Dawn, he did – he thought he did and most of the time it made sense – but he wasn’t about to give up Buffy for her, not when they weren’t doing any harm. It really didn’t work like that. “Should’ve nicked yourself some earplugs.”
Slumping in her chair, Dawn slurped on her Dr. Pepper, no doubt trying to emulsify some of the grease from the chicken. “So that’s how it is, huh?” she asked afterwards, not looking up. “She’s the one you’re in love with, so she’s your priority.”
“And again – what is it you’re on about now?” he asked, giving in to the lemon-lime fizz of his own drink but otherwise not rising to the bait. God, he hated Mountain Dew.
Not quite as much as he hated Dawn’s patented teenage shrug, however. “It’s pretty obvious,” she said. “I knew when she came back that things were gonna be different, but now you’re so caught up in her – it’s disgusting.” Well, that was uncalled for. “When she was in the hospital you didn’t even…” She sneered, curling her lip.
“What?” Spike wasn’t about to let her trail off; thumped his cup on the table instead, so she could realise he was irritated. “You’re narked ‘cause I stayed with her, instead of running off with you?” Please; someone save him. “You had Willow at home. Tara too, I’d wager; don’t tell me you –”
“But I wanted to talk to you!” Dawn insisted, finally looking up, her expression a mixture of stubbornness and blame. “I mean, sure, send me home with the person who put me in the hospital the last time, what a great solution! Obviously she knows what it’s like to worry about Buffy – oh, no, wait, she spent most of the time she was dead planning to bring her back to life.” Shaking her head, Dawn snorted, disturbingly bitter.
It was hard to remember sometimes that Dawn wasn’t just a little California girl. Even though the look of her screamed mall rat, with her clean blue jeans, denim jacket (another reason he was glad he hadn’t bought one), her straight long hair, all at home on the red plastic seat, he had to remember that this girl had had her mother die and watched her sister kill herself – had probably imagined herself dying on more than one occasion. She could be bloody marvellous.
And yet, he wasn’t able to resist the urge to tell her, “Dawn, from the bottom of my unbeating heart – grow up.” Even when it made her flinch, drop her eyes back down to her chicken like he’d raised a fist. “Look,” he tried, keeping his tone as friendly as he could. He did love her, after all. “I don’t want to tell you this and, frankly, I shouldn’t bloody have to. If things were right, you’d be free to pout and stomp your feet all you want, not lift a finger till college when you could leap head first into the big wide world.” Where was he going with this – oh, right… “But life doesn’t work that way.” And didn’t he know it. “You want to talk priorities, well you’re Buffy’s number one. She’s out there right now trying to get you both some money so you can have it easier. And here you are, you’re your own number one. That’s two whole people you’ve got looking out for you.”
“But…” Dawn began, poking her chicken again but trailing off pretty quick.
“Not to mention,” Spike continued, picking up his drink again to gesture. Christ, he wanted a fag; this bloody country had gone to the dogs. “You’ve got me and the Scoobies and all your teachers at school – and don’t think I’ve forgotten that the bell ain’t struck three yet – We’re all keeping an eye out for you, telling you what’s what.”
Squirming, Dawn still tried to protest, “But Buffy…”
“Oh yeah.” He snorted. “She’s got the Scoobies too, but they’ve all up against the same issues she’s got. Red’s not made it out of school; heaven knows how Harris convinced anyone he’s good with his hands; none of them have got the time for each other. And now that watcher of hers has buggered off she’s working herself to the bone, trying to keep the wolves at bay and the black dog and all.” He didn’t mean to get so upset about this, but it was getting to him now. “If I don’t keep an eye on her,” he wondered, part of him actually hoping for an answer, “who else’ll keep her alive? Tell me that one, Dawn. I have a few problems these days telling when she’s up to the task and when she’s not.”
“But…” Dawn said again, like it was her favourite word in the world. Her tone was different this time, however, less whiny. More disbelieving. “But you’ve noticed she’s happier, right?”
He looked up, met Dawn’s eyes across the table. She looked as confused as he felt. Where was she getting her information, he wondered. All his mind could recall was the sight of one slayer at his cemetery gate, slumping and sobbing in pain and weariness. Maybe a part of that was also due to the way she’d just walked out on him, but it would be foolish, admission of love or no, to assume that was the only cause. The version of Buffy’s heart he’d inherited, what she’d said he’d inherited in any case, it didn’t work that way. “Eh?”
“I’m just saying,” Dawn dismissed, like she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Since after Willow’s memory spell, I figure since you two started whatever, she’s been acting more like she’s real.” This was the point when she gave in and picked up her chicken with her fingers. “She’s not been like Chuckles the Clown or anything,” she explained between bites, apparently trying to diminish her authority as a source. “And how the hell would I know if the two are related – but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want you worrying about her 24/7.” She finished with by lowering her voice, pulling the last scrap of skin off a bone and muttering, “She doesn’t worry about you half as much…”
“Oh, she worries,” he informed her, taking another mouthful of his drink. About whether he was evil, whether he was good, whether he was corrupting her, whether he cared what she thought, whether he trusted her, whether he loved her – he could see the worries clear as day. “Just not about what you’d be expecting, is all.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. As she started on her fries, Spike figured they were finally back on neutral ground.
“So, go on then,” he tried to get them back on track, a little touched by the idea of a fifteen-year-old looking out for his love life, a little disturbed. “When did it all start, the thieving? You been sitting on these rants a long time?” He decided it was time he got his fair share of the chicken, unnecessary expense though it was. And going cold.
“It was before,” Dawn began, begrudgingly. She sighed, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t even remember the reason. Of course, he could understand that: every past was a different country, but that time was on a different continent. “I don’t even know…” More Dr. Pepper, like that would solve it. “It was something I hadn’t done before, you know, something the monks hadn’t decided I did – like, the opposite of chess club.” She looked up, appealing to him for some appellation of cool. “I mean, come on! Geek, much? Why couldn’t twelve-year-old me learn guitar or take drama class or… Anyway.” The sad thing was, they’d had some good games over the summer, when he’d been pissed enough to forget he usually claimed ignorance of the rules and she’d been so bored that she’d turned off the TV. She had the killer instinct and the patience, whether the monks gave it her or not. “I think, also, maybe…”
Her gaze fell away. “What?” he coaxed.
“I guess I figured,” she explained, hesitantly. “if I faded away, you know? If I got destroyed or whatever – then, even if people forgot I existed, well, I’d still have their stuff. So they couldn’t forget me, not entirely.” One particularly floppy chip was waved in a gesture. “It… Didn’t really make sense.”
His poor, miserable, made-up girl… What was he supposed to say to that? “What about the shops, though, niblet?” he tried, keeping his voice gentle, if only to encourage her to stay with him, look up instead of down at her ketchup, the smear of it on the table. “Why did you start doing that?” He glanced down at his bag, the tat and the posh shampoo his jacket was currently sharing real estate with. Was there any reason to it? And how the hell was he going to explain it to Buffy, if – if not when – she cottoned on? “You wouldn’t be caught dead in that mascara.” And, bloody hell, he knew that, because they’d made funeral plans.
Frowning, Dawn shrugged at first. She seemed to be getting angry again, just as defensive as before, but it fizzled out into not very much at all. “Look, I don’t know, all right?” she snapped, slouching lower in the fixed chair so her legs shoved past his under the table. Then she looked up to glare, obstinately. “Because I could?” she suggested. “Because I was bored? Because the shampoo Buffy buys makes my scalp flake? Why do you do it?”
“Because I’m a bad, rude man,” the answer tripped off his tongue before he could even think about it. Even as his stomach sank. “Which you shouldn’t try –”
“But maybe I’m a bad, rude woman,” Dawn interrupted, jutting out her chin. “You don’t know.”
Fuck, but he did know, didn’t he? He’d already made it when he’d died: had a dying mum and a father overseas, but he’d sold the Staffordshire residence with the money well-invested for another house later on. Dawn, on the other hand, still had her whole life ahead of her, and needed that bloody school of hers to say that she could live it. “Dawn, listen to me,” he tried to tell her, tried to be serious. He could do this, couldn’t he? Be a good influence on her? It didn’t feel like it should be his job, but he didn’t want her rotting in a prison cell and there weren’t many other options. “I know you’ve been through a tough time. I know the world is full of wankers.” She was listening, he thought. He hoped. “But if you fuck up now, you’re gonna feel it for years. Every move you make –” He plotted it out across the table, stabbing his index finger at two-inch intervals. “– that affects tomorrow and the next day and the next year. If you don’t think about that, pet, don’t plan for it, then your future’s had it. Gone.”
And didn’t he know it. His whole life flashed before his eyes when he watched Buffy walk out of that crypt door. Halfway down the first bottle of whiskey he’d told himself he was never allowed to forget, if she came back – even if she didn’t and he had to fight for her. It had been a massive practical joke when she’d put the grenade in his hand, but he’d seen it, what he’d done. How he’d brought himself to the point where all his stuff needed to be destroyed.
So there would be no forgetting about the future. Not if he could help it. And especially not from Dawn.
It looked like what he was saying was possibly starting to sink in. The problem was, as usual with Dawn, the moment he’d manage to impart the slightest hint of wisdom she turned around and pushed him for that little bit more. “But what am I supposed to do, Spike?” she asked, slumping in her chair. “Go to school and burn magnesium? Write a presentation on how Juliet is feeling? What about what I’m feeling?” Her eyes, already too big for one little girl were getting saucer-like now, and he couldn’t help his heart breaking for her. “Everyone around me dies or leaves or forgets that I exist… And, and what if Warren had shot Buffy dead? No one’s talking about it, but I don’t – what would we have done? How would we get going again?”
At the thought of it, Spike had to shut his eyes, because he didn’t want to see it. The sight of her looking dead on the ground had been nothing like the last time. Then he had almost known it was coming, got the hint that Buffy was entertaining the thought and prepared himself, if only infinitesimally. At her party, on the other hand, all he’d seen was her walk away – not gone after her because he’d been too busy arguing. There hadn’t been the pain to dull his senses, just the knowledge that he hadn’t gone after her and by the time he heard the gunshot it was too late to get out of the house in time. And then she’d been there, lying on the lawn, smelling of blood, eyes blank when she’d looked at his face, lips pursed in confused surprise…
He didn’t want to see it, but he was seeing it anyway, felt the fear that she wasn’t with him. The thought that he wouldn’t know what was happening if anything went wrong in LA, it terrified him, but he knew he had to shake it off. Buffy wouldn’t stand to have him guard her side at all times, it just wasn’t possible.
“You can’t think like that,” he forced himself to say, opening his eyes in an attempt to convince himself, convince Dawn. “We keep going because we keep going, don’t look back.” Her stubborn expression was pinning him down again, but he was bigger and badder than her and could do stubborn like she wouldn’t believe. “And you don’t do bullshit like nicking bloody Maybelline…”
“But I hate it at school,” Dawn interrupted, clenching her drink and taking them right back full circle, it felt like. “I hate it, the way people look at me. They all think I’m weird because my mom’s dead and they don’t even know about Buffy, apart from knowing she’s weird too. The teachers act like they’re sympathetic, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about, and none of them will tell me why I’m supposed to care.”
“You know why you should care,” he bit out, because they’d been over this again and again. “Because if you don’t, they’ll take you away and dump you somewhere to rot.” Maybe he over-identified with this particular predicament, but he didn’t understand why Dawn didn’t get it. “Maybe you’d see Buffy at weekends, maybe you’d be too far away; maybe they’d find your dad and he’d take you to Spain.” God only knew if he was getting somewhere this time, but Spike tried like he always tried, “Come on, pet; I’m supposed to be the one malfunctioning in the foresight department. Don’t show me up.”
A study in teenage angst and genuine misery, Dawn poked at her rapidly cooling chicken. “Can we…” she said, like she wanted nothing more than this whole episode of her life to be over. “Can we go home and listen to those CDs you bought for me?”
Nicked for her, more like, but that couldn’t really happen again, could it? “The Pistols?” he asked back, trying to remember what it had actually been that he’d given her. Maybe his stuff wasn’t entirely lost after all. “Always, niblet.” First time that day, he grinned.
“So, basically, what you’re saying is, if I don’t give a shit and do something with my life, I’m gonna take a load of drugs, kill my girlfriend or whoever, maybe, and then OD myself.”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
By the time they got home, Spike wasn’t much in the mood to continue playing the responsible adult. Thankfully, Dawn seemed to be feeling better about things, not least because he’d let her have one of Willow’s weak party beers out of the fridge. The witch herself was out, probably at the library or something, and as far as he was concerned one beer wasn’t going to do the girl any harm. Probably it was still illegal, but unlike daylight robbery it was unlikely to get the both of them banged up.
Besides, drinking alone was fucking miserable. Even and especially on the third go round of Never Mind the Bollocks.
“You so thought you and Dru were, like, Sid and Nancy mark two, didn’t you?” the girl herself asked, halfway through Seventeen, a guileless expression on her face. That meant she was mocking him on the inside. “I bet you had the death pact and everything.”
He shrugged, unashamed, told her, “We had the death pact long before they did.” Poor old Sid – he could barely play the bass and no one wanted him for that. Even if Nancy had been as crackers as everyone said, it probably made a nice change having her around. He knew how that felt, after all; he remembered being certain there was no point to unliving without Dru. He must have been so young… “Whole idea was old hat by ’79.”
“Right,” Dawn replied, raising an eyebrow. She thought he was full of shit, but that wasn’t anything new. The nice thing about Dawn was that, even so, she was still willing to listen. It had always been the same, including when he’d been trying to prove he could unlive without Buffy. Mostly failing. “So, what does that make you now, then?” his Dawn continued. “Now you’re, like, obsolescent?”
“Obsolete,” he corrected automatically, before he’d fully acknowledged what she’d said. “And, oi,” he added, insulted when he caught on. “Watch your mouth.”
“What?” she replied, eyes a little bright from the alcohol, staring down his glare. God, these Summerses sozzled easily. “You had a pact. The conditions might as well have been fulfilled, but you’re still here.”
She might as well have asked him what was the meaning of life, for all she seemed to be projecting onto him. Part of him was very tempted to answer, ‘42’. Nonetheless, he resisted. “Yeah, well,” he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. “Got a new purpose now.”
“Oh, come on,” Dawn sneered, rocking back on the sofa. Maybe drunk Dawn wasn’t quite the companion he’d hoped her to be. “It can’t be Buffy; don’t make me puke.”
At some point or other, she was actually going to let this go, and that would be a very happy day indeed. “What is it you actually expect me to say?”
“Nothing,” Dawn replied, rolling her eyes. “What do I know?” She sighed, playing with the hair behind her head. “It just seems to me,” she threw out, passive-aggressive to the max, “that it’s gotta give you a really warped sense of perspective if you make one person so important to you.”
“Yeah, well,” he replied, annoyed as he knocked back the last of whatever beer he was on now. None of them could tell the difference about him and Buffy, could they, how he was trying to be more than her pet demon? “Says the girl who’d probably be dead if her sister didn’t think she was worth her own life.”
For a moment, Dawn frowned, like she couldn’t work out whether he’d really hurt her or not with that remark. For a moment he wasn’t quite sure either, and wished he could take it back.
The mood of the room chilled, even as Anarchy started up. Eventually Dawn spoke, dark and quiet. “I know you think I’m ungrateful,” she said, “but I get it, OK? Buffy’s a freaking rock star. You don’t need to go on about it all the time.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” he replied, apparently unable to control his mouth. And her glare was making him angry, too fucking rude for her own good. Where did she get off telling him what to think or feel? Where did all of them get off? “Yes, I’m in love with your sister – what d’you want me to say?” He snapped at her, “Love you too, even when you’re being the daft cow you are now – probably would die for you if I had to – but can we not talk about it, because I’d rather not think about either of you dying today, thank you very much.”
Now, of course, Dawn was looking away from him, gulping down what could well be a lump in her throat. He’d at least managed to shut her up, but he still wished he could control his outbursts of this sort of thing. They never went particularly well.
Luckily, the phone rang just then, and Dawn immediately leapt off the sofa to go and answer it.
It wouldn’t be Buffy, of course, so Spike tried not to pay attention. It would be one Dawn’s girly mates, whatever she said about not having any. She’d have been missed at school, so they’d be calling for the story of her great day off – or some suitable made up version. It was too early for Buffy, if she was even going to remember to call in at all. He was certain she’d leave it until everything had been sorted out, until she was settled for the evening in the Hyperion, not now.
Maybe he’d turn on the TV, Spike thought; have a gander at what was happening in the world. Maybe he’d have a snooze. Dawn would be a little while and he didn’t have much else to do. He wouldn’t wonder what Buffy was doing right now, because there was no point.
“Hello?” As it was when Dawn answered the phone, however, there was a remarkable lack of squealing. His ears pricked up. “What?” Her face was growing worried and his heart sank, imagining. “Are you OK?” She was meeting his eyes now, across the room; he was already on his feet.
Feeling sick, he asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s Buffy,” Dawn replied, all of her previous venom completely gone from the name. He was across the room in two strides. Not again. Someone give the girl a break. “Something’s wrong.”
.
[Chapter Nine: Don’t Forget Today’s Trash Day.]
Turn and Face the Strain.
[Sequel to The More Things Stay the Same and As Good as a Rest.]
When Buffy thought about falling in love again, she didn't expect it to be nearly so complicated as it actually turns out to be.
Also, she didn't expect it to be Spike. (She's not sure he did either.)
[Notes + Chapter One: I'm Not a Political Animal, But.]
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[Chapter Seven: By Letting You In.]
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Chapter Eight: Maybe the Time is Right.
When Spike got downstairs again, Dawn was still browsing Health and Beauty. She was pretty easy to spot, in the end, as the only school-aged kid he could see, though he doubted she was the only one playing hooky from Sunnydale Junior High.
Initially, however, he didn’t want her to know he was there. He wanted to know what she was doing, what she was looking at and why she was here, since, as far as he could remember from the Revello Drive bathroom, she had beauty lotions and potions and gadgets coming out of her ears. He couldn’t quite remember how her school worked, if it was possible she’d been let out early for not having any lessons at the end of the day, but it didn’t seem likely. After all, she was only fifteen – weren’t there rules about that sort of thing?
As it was, he needed hair gel, so Spike started browsing for that, actually browsing for a Dawn-shaped girl, but making sure he didn’t give that impression to anybody else. It was a rather easy hunting habit of the old days, one he had no qualms about using now, and it got him through Styling right around the corner from Shampoo and Conditioner, where he could pause by the end display, drop out of eye line when a shampoo-shopper looked up.
Dawn, after all, seemed to be shopping for shampoo. She was in the wrong section, at least for a girl with her budget, reading price labels on bottles getting up past fourteen dollars, on to twenty and over. He understood an urge towards the finer things in life, but watching the girl pick up bottles and avidly read the bollocks they’d written on the back about what was essentially the same old soap, well, he’d almost had enough.
Then, however, it got worse. On a dramatic spark of ‘oh, hang on!’, Dawn put the shampoo she was reading back, then pulled her large shoulder bag down to her elbow and opened it, rummaging around and then glancing past it to see that one of her shoelaces was coming undone. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence, and Spike had to accept it was slick, but he couldn’t help wincing as Dawn stood back up, knocking a couple of low-shelf, expensive bottles into her bag along the way, behind the cover of her body and faster than a dozy perusal of CCTV would catch.
Artful Dodger, eat your heart out. He hadn’t taught her that trick, had he? It wasn’t like he operated with a bag, so it couldn’t have been him. Most of his thieving from shops like this relied very simply on being fast, but that wasn’t available to her, so she’d adapted, clearly. Too bright for her own good, that was Dawn.
“Oi, niblet,” he said then, before she could get her bag closed, not sure he could carry on watching, starting to get more than a little angry with her. He wasn’t sure that was the right emotion, but it was the one he had on him, anyway. Yeah, all right, she’d watched him steal a hundred things and they’d had a laugh about it, but she wasn’t supposed to go out on a limb and risk herself like this. She certainly wasn’t meant to take him as her role model. What the hell did she think she was playing at?
When she’d worked out who was talking to her, Dawn spun to face him like she’d been struck with an electric shock, colour bleached white from her face, guilt in her big eyes. That was more like what he expected to see. It made him feel a tad off-colour, but all the experience with Buffy was making him realise you couldn’t ever fully distract people and their souls from the feeling – you had to ride it out.
And so he asked Dawn, “You had any lunch?” making it clear in no uncertain terms that she was coming with him. She wasn’t getting out of this that easily. “Let’s have lunch.”
“Spike…” she began, finding her voice but starting to shake, fingers trembling on her bag handles. At least she knew he wasn’t impressed. That boded well, didn’t it? He’d always tried to keep a ‘do as I say, not as I do’ approach with her, if only to keep her out of trouble with her sister.
Crossing the few steps down the shampoo aisle, he moved to get hold of Dawn’s arm and drag her, not forcibly, but painlessly encouraging, out of this place and down to the food court. One step in, however, he had Buffy’s nagging voice in his head and he realised there was more to think about, just like there always was. He had to made a decision, right now and fast, even though he knew that wasn’t his strong point. The most expedient route out of this was to sneak his gel in her bag along with the two other bottles, get her to close the thing up and scarper to the food court. Yeah, that would definitely be the easiest – and it wasn’t like he hadn’t already been thinking about slipping the tub in his hand into his jacket bag and getting on with his day rather than queue again. But then…
What would Buffy do if she were here? What would she want him to do? He could see the scene played with Buffy in his place: the panic and fear taking over her expression, worry about Dawn making her yell, imagination running towards how things must have got to this point, her own fault in the proceedings; she'd put the shampoo back on the shelf and march her sister out of here, head in hands and likely not allowed back to the store or even the mall, no matter if her friends ever wanted to loiter, or she wanted new clothes.
He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t bring himself to. He’d rip Dawn a new one when they were home – or back at 1630, at least – but he couldn’t make a scene out here, make her feel so terrible about it and what he knew was her favourite place. But even then - he knew that Dawn would never be allowed to walk out of here with stolen goods, not ever. She’d know it too, use it as a weakness against him and accuse him of gross hypocrisy. As it was, he couldn’t leave himself any opportunity to be wheedled out of his anger; what if Buffy used it as an excuse to stop saying she loved him?
With that frightening thought in mind, what was he going to do? He had fifty dollars left, most of which was pigeonholed for blood and smokes, but, fuck it, he could go without. Maybe Buffy would get a clue and make Angel pay up for all the heartache he’d given her over the years, enough that she’d feel like sharing. Dawn was on two bottles at eighteen so that was, what, thirty-six, and his gel was cheap. And he could cover fried chicken and a drink. It wasn’t like Buffy’s sis was selfish when it really came down to it, so the guilt trip would probably be a lesson in itself. He hoped.
“Best pay for this stuff before we go, though, yeah?” he said, committing within seconds, steering Dawn towards the cash desk. God, he hoped he knew what he was doing. “Dunno why you couldn’t use a basket if you felt like having your hands free, but best pay before you forget. Here, pop that in as well.” Ostentatiously he tossed his gel up into the air, letting it crash into the treasure trove of Dawn’s bag – which sounded like it had a little more in it than two bottles of hair goop. Oh, buggering hell, he hoped this would be all right.
It took a moment for Dawn to start keeping up with where he was shoving her. Not enough that he set off the chip, but enough for her to blush bright red. “Spike,” she whispered, as if he hadn’t got it, “I can’t afford… I was gonna…”
She was doing well at least at making him angry; how fucking stupid did she think he was? Thankfully an icy stare shut her up, and she took exactly his meaning when he said, “No need to get into debt over bits like this; best I treat you, innit?”
At last her brain caught up with her mouth, and she scurried to match his stride across the floor. “No, Spike, it doesn’t matter,” she started saying, guilt really kicking in. (They were almost fun to play with, soulful types.) “You don’t have to spend your money – I don’t need… I’ve got eleven fifty; I can owe you the rest – I’ll get you blood and stuff!”
She shut up when they reached the cashier, as he pulled out the last of his cash and she had to concentrate on her trembling hand as it set on the counter her shampoo and conditioner and the hair gel, then a cheap, infantile eyeshadow set and nail polish that really wouldn’t suit her, silver mascara.
He watched the numbers ring up; they were going to need Dawn’s money for lunch. Another plan turned to shit in his hands that was.
“So why’d you do it?” he broached when they’d finally left the store, settled down in the disturbingly bright but underground food court, got some chicken to share, beans, fries, a Dr. Pepper and a Mountain Dew – because that made it cheaper, apparently. He’d thought about making Dawn buy him hot wings at the one-fifty premium, but mostly what he wanted was a beer and a couple of pints from an open vein, so it seemed petty to upgrade something that would never substitute.
The shock was starting to wear off Dawn’s face now, but it left behind a sullen expression he didn’t usually get aimed at him. “Does it matter?” she asked, picking at chicken skin with her spork. “I didn’t even steal anything; I’m crime free.”
“Yeah,” Spike replied, trying to tune out the inane chatter that filled the air around them. “Because you’ve never done this before.” Again, how stupid did she think he was? “Pull the other one, bit.”
“For your information,” she declared, bristling, jabbing her chicken harder, tearing some off onto her tines, “and not that you notice or care, but I’ve been getting better. Your intervention’s a little late.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he asked, frustrated. He forgot this one could be as bad as the other Summers sometimes. What was he supposed to have known? To have guessed? To have divined from her gestures over the formica? He was only one vampire, for Christ’s sake.
Apparently this wasn’t enough for Dawn, however. “It means,” she spat, heading down the tried and tested route of taking things out on him, “that while you’re upstairs boning my sister, my life is still going on.”
“Oh.” Well, at least she hadn’t figured out the downstairs bit. Not that that would appease Buffy. “You…”
“There was – squeaking,” Dawn hissed, sounding less scandalised and more like this was the only ammunition she had.
One of the marvels of lacking a soul was that he didn’t really care. In the end, if things got too difficult or too complicated, he didn’t have to bother and it would wash over him, forgotten. “Well…” Fuck it; he refused to care about this, so told her, “Them’s the breaks, innit?” He loved Dawn, he did – he thought he did and most of the time it made sense – but he wasn’t about to give up Buffy for her, not when they weren’t doing any harm. It really didn’t work like that. “Should’ve nicked yourself some earplugs.”
Slumping in her chair, Dawn slurped on her Dr. Pepper, no doubt trying to emulsify some of the grease from the chicken. “So that’s how it is, huh?” she asked afterwards, not looking up. “She’s the one you’re in love with, so she’s your priority.”
“And again – what is it you’re on about now?” he asked, giving in to the lemon-lime fizz of his own drink but otherwise not rising to the bait. God, he hated Mountain Dew.
Not quite as much as he hated Dawn’s patented teenage shrug, however. “It’s pretty obvious,” she said. “I knew when she came back that things were gonna be different, but now you’re so caught up in her – it’s disgusting.” Well, that was uncalled for. “When she was in the hospital you didn’t even…” She sneered, curling her lip.
“What?” Spike wasn’t about to let her trail off; thumped his cup on the table instead, so she could realise he was irritated. “You’re narked ‘cause I stayed with her, instead of running off with you?” Please; someone save him. “You had Willow at home. Tara too, I’d wager; don’t tell me you –”
“But I wanted to talk to you!” Dawn insisted, finally looking up, her expression a mixture of stubbornness and blame. “I mean, sure, send me home with the person who put me in the hospital the last time, what a great solution! Obviously she knows what it’s like to worry about Buffy – oh, no, wait, she spent most of the time she was dead planning to bring her back to life.” Shaking her head, Dawn snorted, disturbingly bitter.
It was hard to remember sometimes that Dawn wasn’t just a little California girl. Even though the look of her screamed mall rat, with her clean blue jeans, denim jacket (another reason he was glad he hadn’t bought one), her straight long hair, all at home on the red plastic seat, he had to remember that this girl had had her mother die and watched her sister kill herself – had probably imagined herself dying on more than one occasion. She could be bloody marvellous.
And yet, he wasn’t able to resist the urge to tell her, “Dawn, from the bottom of my unbeating heart – grow up.” Even when it made her flinch, drop her eyes back down to her chicken like he’d raised a fist. “Look,” he tried, keeping his tone as friendly as he could. He did love her, after all. “I don’t want to tell you this and, frankly, I shouldn’t bloody have to. If things were right, you’d be free to pout and stomp your feet all you want, not lift a finger till college when you could leap head first into the big wide world.” Where was he going with this – oh, right… “But life doesn’t work that way.” And didn’t he know it. “You want to talk priorities, well you’re Buffy’s number one. She’s out there right now trying to get you both some money so you can have it easier. And here you are, you’re your own number one. That’s two whole people you’ve got looking out for you.”
“But…” Dawn began, poking her chicken again but trailing off pretty quick.
“Not to mention,” Spike continued, picking up his drink again to gesture. Christ, he wanted a fag; this bloody country had gone to the dogs. “You’ve got me and the Scoobies and all your teachers at school – and don’t think I’ve forgotten that the bell ain’t struck three yet – We’re all keeping an eye out for you, telling you what’s what.”
Squirming, Dawn still tried to protest, “But Buffy…”
“Oh yeah.” He snorted. “She’s got the Scoobies too, but they’ve all up against the same issues she’s got. Red’s not made it out of school; heaven knows how Harris convinced anyone he’s good with his hands; none of them have got the time for each other. And now that watcher of hers has buggered off she’s working herself to the bone, trying to keep the wolves at bay and the black dog and all.” He didn’t mean to get so upset about this, but it was getting to him now. “If I don’t keep an eye on her,” he wondered, part of him actually hoping for an answer, “who else’ll keep her alive? Tell me that one, Dawn. I have a few problems these days telling when she’s up to the task and when she’s not.”
“But…” Dawn said again, like it was her favourite word in the world. Her tone was different this time, however, less whiny. More disbelieving. “But you’ve noticed she’s happier, right?”
He looked up, met Dawn’s eyes across the table. She looked as confused as he felt. Where was she getting her information, he wondered. All his mind could recall was the sight of one slayer at his cemetery gate, slumping and sobbing in pain and weariness. Maybe a part of that was also due to the way she’d just walked out on him, but it would be foolish, admission of love or no, to assume that was the only cause. The version of Buffy’s heart he’d inherited, what she’d said he’d inherited in any case, it didn’t work that way. “Eh?”
“I’m just saying,” Dawn dismissed, like she wished she hadn’t brought it up. “Since after Willow’s memory spell, I figure since you two started whatever, she’s been acting more like she’s real.” This was the point when she gave in and picked up her chicken with her fingers. “She’s not been like Chuckles the Clown or anything,” she explained between bites, apparently trying to diminish her authority as a source. “And how the hell would I know if the two are related – but I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want you worrying about her 24/7.” She finished with by lowering her voice, pulling the last scrap of skin off a bone and muttering, “She doesn’t worry about you half as much…”
“Oh, she worries,” he informed her, taking another mouthful of his drink. About whether he was evil, whether he was good, whether he was corrupting her, whether he cared what she thought, whether he trusted her, whether he loved her – he could see the worries clear as day. “Just not about what you’d be expecting, is all.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. As she started on her fries, Spike figured they were finally back on neutral ground.
“So, go on then,” he tried to get them back on track, a little touched by the idea of a fifteen-year-old looking out for his love life, a little disturbed. “When did it all start, the thieving? You been sitting on these rants a long time?” He decided it was time he got his fair share of the chicken, unnecessary expense though it was. And going cold.
“It was before,” Dawn began, begrudgingly. She sighed, shaking her head, as if she couldn’t even remember the reason. Of course, he could understand that: every past was a different country, but that time was on a different continent. “I don’t even know…” More Dr. Pepper, like that would solve it. “It was something I hadn’t done before, you know, something the monks hadn’t decided I did – like, the opposite of chess club.” She looked up, appealing to him for some appellation of cool. “I mean, come on! Geek, much? Why couldn’t twelve-year-old me learn guitar or take drama class or… Anyway.” The sad thing was, they’d had some good games over the summer, when he’d been pissed enough to forget he usually claimed ignorance of the rules and she’d been so bored that she’d turned off the TV. She had the killer instinct and the patience, whether the monks gave it her or not. “I think, also, maybe…”
Her gaze fell away. “What?” he coaxed.
“I guess I figured,” she explained, hesitantly. “if I faded away, you know? If I got destroyed or whatever – then, even if people forgot I existed, well, I’d still have their stuff. So they couldn’t forget me, not entirely.” One particularly floppy chip was waved in a gesture. “It… Didn’t really make sense.”
His poor, miserable, made-up girl… What was he supposed to say to that? “What about the shops, though, niblet?” he tried, keeping his voice gentle, if only to encourage her to stay with him, look up instead of down at her ketchup, the smear of it on the table. “Why did you start doing that?” He glanced down at his bag, the tat and the posh shampoo his jacket was currently sharing real estate with. Was there any reason to it? And how the hell was he going to explain it to Buffy, if – if not when – she cottoned on? “You wouldn’t be caught dead in that mascara.” And, bloody hell, he knew that, because they’d made funeral plans.
Frowning, Dawn shrugged at first. She seemed to be getting angry again, just as defensive as before, but it fizzled out into not very much at all. “Look, I don’t know, all right?” she snapped, slouching lower in the fixed chair so her legs shoved past his under the table. Then she looked up to glare, obstinately. “Because I could?” she suggested. “Because I was bored? Because the shampoo Buffy buys makes my scalp flake? Why do you do it?”
“Because I’m a bad, rude man,” the answer tripped off his tongue before he could even think about it. Even as his stomach sank. “Which you shouldn’t try –”
“But maybe I’m a bad, rude woman,” Dawn interrupted, jutting out her chin. “You don’t know.”
Fuck, but he did know, didn’t he? He’d already made it when he’d died: had a dying mum and a father overseas, but he’d sold the Staffordshire residence with the money well-invested for another house later on. Dawn, on the other hand, still had her whole life ahead of her, and needed that bloody school of hers to say that she could live it. “Dawn, listen to me,” he tried to tell her, tried to be serious. He could do this, couldn’t he? Be a good influence on her? It didn’t feel like it should be his job, but he didn’t want her rotting in a prison cell and there weren’t many other options. “I know you’ve been through a tough time. I know the world is full of wankers.” She was listening, he thought. He hoped. “But if you fuck up now, you’re gonna feel it for years. Every move you make –” He plotted it out across the table, stabbing his index finger at two-inch intervals. “– that affects tomorrow and the next day and the next year. If you don’t think about that, pet, don’t plan for it, then your future’s had it. Gone.”
And didn’t he know it. His whole life flashed before his eyes when he watched Buffy walk out of that crypt door. Halfway down the first bottle of whiskey he’d told himself he was never allowed to forget, if she came back – even if she didn’t and he had to fight for her. It had been a massive practical joke when she’d put the grenade in his hand, but he’d seen it, what he’d done. How he’d brought himself to the point where all his stuff needed to be destroyed.
So there would be no forgetting about the future. Not if he could help it. And especially not from Dawn.
It looked like what he was saying was possibly starting to sink in. The problem was, as usual with Dawn, the moment he’d manage to impart the slightest hint of wisdom she turned around and pushed him for that little bit more. “But what am I supposed to do, Spike?” she asked, slumping in her chair. “Go to school and burn magnesium? Write a presentation on how Juliet is feeling? What about what I’m feeling?” Her eyes, already too big for one little girl were getting saucer-like now, and he couldn’t help his heart breaking for her. “Everyone around me dies or leaves or forgets that I exist… And, and what if Warren had shot Buffy dead? No one’s talking about it, but I don’t – what would we have done? How would we get going again?”
At the thought of it, Spike had to shut his eyes, because he didn’t want to see it. The sight of her looking dead on the ground had been nothing like the last time. Then he had almost known it was coming, got the hint that Buffy was entertaining the thought and prepared himself, if only infinitesimally. At her party, on the other hand, all he’d seen was her walk away – not gone after her because he’d been too busy arguing. There hadn’t been the pain to dull his senses, just the knowledge that he hadn’t gone after her and by the time he heard the gunshot it was too late to get out of the house in time. And then she’d been there, lying on the lawn, smelling of blood, eyes blank when she’d looked at his face, lips pursed in confused surprise…
He didn’t want to see it, but he was seeing it anyway, felt the fear that she wasn’t with him. The thought that he wouldn’t know what was happening if anything went wrong in LA, it terrified him, but he knew he had to shake it off. Buffy wouldn’t stand to have him guard her side at all times, it just wasn’t possible.
“You can’t think like that,” he forced himself to say, opening his eyes in an attempt to convince himself, convince Dawn. “We keep going because we keep going, don’t look back.” Her stubborn expression was pinning him down again, but he was bigger and badder than her and could do stubborn like she wouldn’t believe. “And you don’t do bullshit like nicking bloody Maybelline…”
“But I hate it at school,” Dawn interrupted, clenching her drink and taking them right back full circle, it felt like. “I hate it, the way people look at me. They all think I’m weird because my mom’s dead and they don’t even know about Buffy, apart from knowing she’s weird too. The teachers act like they’re sympathetic, but they don’t really know what they’re talking about, and none of them will tell me why I’m supposed to care.”
“You know why you should care,” he bit out, because they’d been over this again and again. “Because if you don’t, they’ll take you away and dump you somewhere to rot.” Maybe he over-identified with this particular predicament, but he didn’t understand why Dawn didn’t get it. “Maybe you’d see Buffy at weekends, maybe you’d be too far away; maybe they’d find your dad and he’d take you to Spain.” God only knew if he was getting somewhere this time, but Spike tried like he always tried, “Come on, pet; I’m supposed to be the one malfunctioning in the foresight department. Don’t show me up.”
A study in teenage angst and genuine misery, Dawn poked at her rapidly cooling chicken. “Can we…” she said, like she wanted nothing more than this whole episode of her life to be over. “Can we go home and listen to those CDs you bought for me?”
Nicked for her, more like, but that couldn’t really happen again, could it? “The Pistols?” he asked back, trying to remember what it had actually been that he’d given her. Maybe his stuff wasn’t entirely lost after all. “Always, niblet.” First time that day, he grinned.
“So, basically, what you’re saying is, if I don’t give a shit and do something with my life, I’m gonna take a load of drugs, kill my girlfriend or whoever, maybe, and then OD myself.”
“That’s about the size of it, yeah.”
By the time they got home, Spike wasn’t much in the mood to continue playing the responsible adult. Thankfully, Dawn seemed to be feeling better about things, not least because he’d let her have one of Willow’s weak party beers out of the fridge. The witch herself was out, probably at the library or something, and as far as he was concerned one beer wasn’t going to do the girl any harm. Probably it was still illegal, but unlike daylight robbery it was unlikely to get the both of them banged up.
Besides, drinking alone was fucking miserable. Even and especially on the third go round of Never Mind the Bollocks.
“You so thought you and Dru were, like, Sid and Nancy mark two, didn’t you?” the girl herself asked, halfway through Seventeen, a guileless expression on her face. That meant she was mocking him on the inside. “I bet you had the death pact and everything.”
He shrugged, unashamed, told her, “We had the death pact long before they did.” Poor old Sid – he could barely play the bass and no one wanted him for that. Even if Nancy had been as crackers as everyone said, it probably made a nice change having her around. He knew how that felt, after all; he remembered being certain there was no point to unliving without Dru. He must have been so young… “Whole idea was old hat by ’79.”
“Right,” Dawn replied, raising an eyebrow. She thought he was full of shit, but that wasn’t anything new. The nice thing about Dawn was that, even so, she was still willing to listen. It had always been the same, including when he’d been trying to prove he could unlive without Buffy. Mostly failing. “So, what does that make you now, then?” his Dawn continued. “Now you’re, like, obsolescent?”
“Obsolete,” he corrected automatically, before he’d fully acknowledged what she’d said. “And, oi,” he added, insulted when he caught on. “Watch your mouth.”
“What?” she replied, eyes a little bright from the alcohol, staring down his glare. God, these Summerses sozzled easily. “You had a pact. The conditions might as well have been fulfilled, but you’re still here.”
She might as well have asked him what was the meaning of life, for all she seemed to be projecting onto him. Part of him was very tempted to answer, ‘42’. Nonetheless, he resisted. “Yeah, well,” he said, feeling slightly uncomfortable. “Got a new purpose now.”
“Oh, come on,” Dawn sneered, rocking back on the sofa. Maybe drunk Dawn wasn’t quite the companion he’d hoped her to be. “It can’t be Buffy; don’t make me puke.”
At some point or other, she was actually going to let this go, and that would be a very happy day indeed. “What is it you actually expect me to say?”
“Nothing,” Dawn replied, rolling her eyes. “What do I know?” She sighed, playing with the hair behind her head. “It just seems to me,” she threw out, passive-aggressive to the max, “that it’s gotta give you a really warped sense of perspective if you make one person so important to you.”
“Yeah, well,” he replied, annoyed as he knocked back the last of whatever beer he was on now. None of them could tell the difference about him and Buffy, could they, how he was trying to be more than her pet demon? “Says the girl who’d probably be dead if her sister didn’t think she was worth her own life.”
For a moment, Dawn frowned, like she couldn’t work out whether he’d really hurt her or not with that remark. For a moment he wasn’t quite sure either, and wished he could take it back.
The mood of the room chilled, even as Anarchy started up. Eventually Dawn spoke, dark and quiet. “I know you think I’m ungrateful,” she said, “but I get it, OK? Buffy’s a freaking rock star. You don’t need to go on about it all the time.”
“You’re the one who brought it up,” he replied, apparently unable to control his mouth. And her glare was making him angry, too fucking rude for her own good. Where did she get off telling him what to think or feel? Where did all of them get off? “Yes, I’m in love with your sister – what d’you want me to say?” He snapped at her, “Love you too, even when you’re being the daft cow you are now – probably would die for you if I had to – but can we not talk about it, because I’d rather not think about either of you dying today, thank you very much.”
Now, of course, Dawn was looking away from him, gulping down what could well be a lump in her throat. He’d at least managed to shut her up, but he still wished he could control his outbursts of this sort of thing. They never went particularly well.
Luckily, the phone rang just then, and Dawn immediately leapt off the sofa to go and answer it.
It wouldn’t be Buffy, of course, so Spike tried not to pay attention. It would be one Dawn’s girly mates, whatever she said about not having any. She’d have been missed at school, so they’d be calling for the story of her great day off – or some suitable made up version. It was too early for Buffy, if she was even going to remember to call in at all. He was certain she’d leave it until everything had been sorted out, until she was settled for the evening in the Hyperion, not now.
Maybe he’d turn on the TV, Spike thought; have a gander at what was happening in the world. Maybe he’d have a snooze. Dawn would be a little while and he didn’t have much else to do. He wouldn’t wonder what Buffy was doing right now, because there was no point.
“Hello?” As it was when Dawn answered the phone, however, there was a remarkable lack of squealing. His ears pricked up. “What?” Her face was growing worried and his heart sank, imagining. “Are you OK?” She was meeting his eyes now, across the room; he was already on his feet.
Feeling sick, he asked, “Who is it?”
“It’s Buffy,” Dawn replied, all of her previous venom completely gone from the name. He was across the room in two strides. Not again. Someone give the girl a break. “Something’s wrong.”
.
[Chapter Nine: Don’t Forget Today’s Trash Day.]
(no subject)
Date: 22/05/2012 07:17 (UTC)“Yes, I’m in love with your sister – what d’you want me to say?” He snapped at her, “Love you too, even when you’re being the daft cow you are now – probably would die for you if I had to – but can we not talk about it, because I’d rather not think about either of you dying today, thank you very much.”
Now, of course, Dawn was looking away from him, gulping down what could well be a lump in her throat. He’d at least managed to shut her up, but he still wished he could control his outbursts of this sort of thing. They never went particularly well.
Ah, that's where you're wrong, dear Spike. You did good there. Just right, probably. Making a girl cry by telling her how much you care isn't always a bad thing. Particularly when the honesty of it shines through. *claps*
(Do wish Dawn returns the stuff for blood money, though. Faint hope.)
(no subject)
Date: 22/05/2012 20:57 (UTC)But Spike doesn't like making people cry! (Well, not now he's semi un-evil.) Glad you liked it, though. :)
(Alack, I fear such matters my flitter in the quagmire of angst that is Dawn's teen!brain. But you never know!)
(no subject)
Date: 23/05/2012 22:08 (UTC)Intrigued by what is goes on with Buffy,,,
(no subject)
Date: 25/05/2012 07:17 (UTC)And we will find out about Buffy soon enough!
(no subject)
Date: 27/05/2012 19:59 (UTC)And oh, the dear sweet clueless man, he said the right thing in spite of himself.
(no subject)
Date: 27/05/2012 20:34 (UTC)I like to think of it that Spike's general trying means that some things fall into place. :D
(no subject)
Date: 27/05/2012 20:35 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 27/05/2012 20:45 (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 04/06/2012 17:32 (UTC)Love love LOVE Spike the role model. <3 Caring for Dawn! AW! Great dynamic with them.
(no subject)
Date: 04/06/2012 17:55 (UTC)And hooray! Thanks. It's fun to write them and have Spike try (even if he does tend to give up a bit after a while).